


So Goes the Gold Age

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherhood, Family, Gen, Halloween, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't take another night cooped up in the motel room</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Goes the Gold Age

"This is a stupid idea."

Sam's jaw is set tight and sullen, just short of a full-on pout. The expression doesn't really suit him anymore - he's shed a lot of his baby fat in the last six months since he started playing soccer - but it's still enough that Dean has to look away for a minute, towards the TV, which is muted to kill the sound of Jamie Lee Curtis' screaming, before he takes Sam's chin tight in his hand and tries again.

"It's fine. You can't go without a costume." Dean's fingers feel clumsy around the eyeliner pencil as he sketches dark shadows under Sam's enormous green eyes, using the pad of his thumb to turn lines into dark smudges. It isn't ideal, doing this kind of thing with ladies makeup shoplifted from the drugstore - but all the _real_ Halloween stuff is long gone. "Otherwise we have to pay to get in, and Dad didn't leave much."

Dean had already skipped class, gone across town where no one would recognize him to panhandle for their supper. He's trying to convince himself it was an oversight on John's part - just pre-hunt jitters - that made him forget to leave enough cash for him and Sam to get by; but John's been in a funk lately, one that Dean recognizes as normally preceding a good bender, and the quiet, traitorous part of Dean is worried that it might have been apathy instead.

"I don't wanna go," Sam isn't the least bit cooperative when Dean tries to smear his lips with blue eye-shadow. He's downright glaring now, trying to worm his chin out of Dean's grip. "We could just stay _here_ and watch movies."

"You'll have fun," it comes out sounding too much like a command, so Dean adds, "c'mon Sammy..."

Sam relents, dropping his shoulders and his gaze, his neck going limp. The wave of relief Dean feels is like being dunked in cold water. He can't take another night cooped up in the motel room with shit-all to do; he's restless and edgy, feeling caged in and tied down. John has been promising him more time on hunts, but that isn't what Dean wants, not really; even if a hunt would channel the restless energy he feels into something productive beyond wearing tracks in the motel room carpet.

"There – one zombie-Sammy."

Sam steps back, looks in the mirror, and declares, "I look stupid."

It's not _that_ bad, Dean thinks, for a mess of stolen makeup. Even with his tan, Sam looks like he might be something almost undead. The dark smudges under his eyes make them look fever-bright and crazy green, and in the low light you can't even tell that the eye-shadow on his lips is supposed to have glitter in it.

"Put your hood up," Dean instructs, "it'll look creepier."

Sam obeys, but he doesn't look much like believes it. Luckily the scowl adds to the costume more than it takes away.

"Where's _your_ costume, Dean?"

Dean flashes his best grin, "You're the zombie, Sammy, and I'm the zombie hunter."

***

They take a case from one of the motel pillows, cross the highway, climb over a guardrail and walk through a long stretch of empty field into town. They're in one of the rougher parts of town and there aren't many kids on the street, but there are still plenty of lit-up houses, and Sam's makeshift costume gets enough of what Dean thinks of as "pity candy" – an extra handful of caramel squares there, an extra mini Snickers Bar there – to make it worth their while. Sam dogs it for the first few blocks, drags his heels while wearing his best bitch face; it's only when he realizes that his shit-on-me expression is actually enhancing his costume that he finally gives in and starts to have a little fun.

It probably helps that Dean elbows him a little, grabs an orange streamer from someone's unfortunately decorated hedges and tosses it around Sam's neck, proclaiming him "the prettiest Halloween princess" and points out that maybe – just maybe – that Jack-o-lantern they just passed looks an awful lot like Uncle Bobby.

Dean knows John would rip them both apart if he knew they were out here like this – wandering the streets totally unprotected on this night of all nights; although they aren't _entirely_ unprotected, because Dean has the Beretta John gave him for his last birthday tucked up in at the small of his back under his jacket – but right now it feels like their night. Forget Halloween or Devil's night or what the hell ever, it's _Winchester_ night as they swagger along the street and gum up their fingers with peanut-butter cups and nougat.

They walk all the way to a little grocery store – still open, even though it's pushing ten o'clock – Dean buys a can of coke, while Sam insists on buying orange juice, and by the time they reach the old theatre, the streets are all but deserted; just the two of them bickering over who gets the solitary Kit-Kat and who has to eat the black liquorice pieces.

Dean had expected a line-up or at least a handful of teenagers waiting to get in; but maybe there's a party somewhere that Dean doesn't know about because they're completely alone as they walk up to the ticket booth, where an old woman with plastic spiders tangled up in her fading dye-job barely gives them a glance before handing them their tickets.

There isn't another soul in the theatre. The floors are sticky and the stale popcorn smell is nauseating, but Dean and Sam grab the perfect seats, right in the middle and settle in to watch the double feature – _Evil Dead 2_ followed by _Night of the Living Dead_. The film rolls the second Dean puts his boots up on the seat in front of him – obviously they're not expecting anyone else to show.

He and Sam mostly laugh their way though _Evil Dead 2_. Bruce Campbell is a fucking genius; but Sam nods off on Dean's shoulder about twenty minutes into _Night of the Living Dead_ \- which Dean thinks should be an outright insult to George Romero, but he lets it happen, wakes Sam afterward by tousling his hair until Sam groans and flails and nearly falls out of his chair.

The night has gone bitter cold when they leave the theatre, and every storefront is dark. Sam starts to walk ahead, shaking off his lethargy, with the now-empty white pillowcase slung around his shoulders, and Dean doubles his stride to catch up. When they're alone like this he can't help but feel the reflexive twinge of nervousness, the one John has ingrained in him since the age of four – keep Sammy safe, always, keep Sammy safe. It's a lot of work not to let it show, but he tries his damnedest, because Sam wants normal, and Dean wants normal for Sam. They reach the field, and Dean can just see the neon lights of the motel sign when Sam looks at him, flashes the biggest, brightest smile he's got, and says "Race ya."

He's off like a shot, and panic hits Dean like a bullet. He wants to shout _"Stop Sammy, stop!"_ \- because it's too far, too fast; but then he's running too, the pounding of blood in his ears drowning out Sam's laughter as he charges through the dry grass, the empty pillowcase flying behind him like a cape. Dean snags it, snags Sam, and bears them both to the ground, holding Sam to him with all the strength he's got in his body. Sam struggles for a minute, then goes still, with his head tucked up under Dean's chin. The night smells of encroaching frost, and Sam smells of chocolate and the bitter-sweet oiliness of stolen makeup.

"Jerk," Sam says, up against his shoulder, "that's cheating."

"Sorry," Dean says without meaning it, slackening up on his grip until Sam can stand, looking down on Dean, his face weirdly shadowed, highlighted in all the wrong ways until he wipes his sleeve across his cheeks and offers Dean a hand. Dean lets Sam help him to his feet, knowing that he'll never be sorry for holding on to his brother as long as he lives. "I'll let you win next time."

-End-


End file.
